


I. Summer

by lockedin221b



Series: Iacta Alea: Cast the Die [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Reality, Alternate Universe, Bodyguard, Drunken Confessions, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Lord John fic, M/M, Parenthood, Past Abuse, Romance, Romantic Friendship, Sex, Single Parents, Soldiers, Widowed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-05
Updated: 2012-08-05
Packaged: 2017-11-11 12:55:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/478757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lockedin221b/pseuds/lockedin221b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>John H. Watson, thirty-one, father, widower, a lord in right, and a doctor by profession. Rather, he had been a doctor until his father passed away and he inherited the house and title.</i>
</p><p>John is an asset to his queen and country, a man with a brilliant mind but a poor reputation among his peers. Since his wife's death less two years earlier, his focus is entirely set on his work and his young son, Hamish. With an international summit about to begin, the last thing he needs in his life is a brash young soldier as his bodyguard. But that's exactly what he gets.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I. Summer

**Author's Note:**

> **NB: This does not take place in the 21st century. This does not take place in the UK, or any real country that we know. It’s “realistic” but, ultimately, an entirely different universe from our own.**
> 
> This is the first of three parts.
> 
> Infinite thanks to the lovelies of tinychat room BD5HR, or, as we lovingly know it, The Butt Cave. You lot are fabulous.

In summer, the song sings itself.  
-William Carlos Williams

The Watson Estate was more impressive in person than it was when it made its frequent appearances in numerous articles, ranging from socialite magazines to political columns. The current head of house was one John H. Watson, thirty-one, father, widower, a lord in right, and a doctor by profession. Rather, he had been a doctor until his father passed away and he inherited the house and title. At the moment, which was a little after seven in the evening, he was sitting in the front parlour dressed to the nines. His right hand was gripped firmly on the handle of a handcrafted cane, and his left was drumming his knee. He looked, from the lanky man in uniform standing at ease, to the suit beside him.

“I specifically requested a military escort,” John said. He stopped drumming and pinched the bridge of his nose. “A proficient, experienced military escort.” The man in uniform couldn’t even have been in his late twenties.

“I assure you, sir,” the suit said, “Mr. Holmes is the best man you could want watching your back tonight.”

“Holmes? Holmes.” John went back to tapping, this time the arm of his chair. “Why do I know that name?”

“My brother’s a lord,” the solider said. He sounded—and looked—bored with the whole ordeal. “A minor lord, not quite in your circle.”

John smirked, though the lack of humour made it seem more like a sneer. “Nice uniform. It’s a shame you couldn’t otherwise be a convincing soldier.” He turned back to the suit. “Does Her Majesty want to have me offed?” The suit gaped, completely stricken. “I don’t need to elaborate just how many foreign dignitaries are going to be at this soirée tonight and how many of them will have assassins in their back pockets. It’s not pride that would lead me to tell you just how many of those would get medals back home for cutting my throat.”

“Please, Lord Watson,” the suit started, pale and sweating from head to toe. “There’s no better man for the job than Mr. Holmes. I know he appears unconventional-”

John barked a laugh. He lifted himself from his chair and hobbled straight-backed up to the uniform. He circled slowly, both for scrutiny and from his limp. “The crisp uniform is about the only convincing thing you’ve given me. He’s got an attitude I don’t like, one I certainly wouldn’t expect from a seasoned officer. Likewise with the hair.” He waved at the large black curls. “Is he even a recruit yet? Did you just pick him off the streets? What exactly does Her Majesty think this is? A joke?” He came around to face them again. “Good god, man! You haven’t even given him a fake pistol to convince me.”

“The idea that a false firearm would fool you is preposterous,” Holmes said, still with the same dull tone. “Seeing as you were once in the service yourself. And I’m not an officer.”

John stared at the man for a solid twenty seconds before shaking his head and turning to the suit. “You can tell Her Majesty that, if her goal was to keep me from this event tonight, she’s succeeded.” John sat back down in his chair and began massaging his knee.

The suit opened his mouth, but for the third time Holmes spoke without prompting or permission, “That would be a foolish act on your part.”

John glared up at this pretender in front of him. “Would it now?”

“Your presence at tonight’s political event would be missed and raise suspicion, speculation, rumours, scandal—however you wish to phrase it. This would cause severe distress for the queen and the rest of our government. All simply because I do not fit your preconceived standards of a ‘proper soldier.’” John opened his mouth, but Holmes continued, “But seeing as you are a man of at least moderate intellect, you know all of this. You simply wish to make a scene before reluctantly accepting my services, though you fear it will only put yourself in danger. However, I can assure you that I am the best choice for the job tonight. You fear assassination? I assume the knife-in-the-back was not meant literally, as weapons will be prohibited at the event. You believe, rather, that any attempt on your life will come in the form of poison. What you requested was not a soldier known for his abilities in hand-to-hand combat, which I assure you I am also proficient in, but one who can identify potential threats in an individual’s mannerisms and actions. For that task, Lord Watson, having anyone else but myself looking after your wellbeing tonight would be horrendously poor judgement on your part, and I doubt you would come out alive. Because you are right in that you are the most likely intended target for assassination tonight.”

John sat back in his chair, re-evaluating the unorthodox soldier before him. He couldn’t help but be impressed, even vaguely amused, if also incredibly annoyed with the man.

“That’s- that’s quite enough, Mr. Holmes,” the suit stuttered. “My sincerest apologies, Lord Watson.” Unbeknownst to the suit, Holmes rolled his eyes. John was hard pressed to hide a smile.

“We’ll be leaving in fifteen minutes,” John said to Holmes.

“Sir?” The suit was baffled.

“He’s right, I can’t simply refuse to attend tonight’s event. You’re dismissed.” John waved him away, his gaze set on Holmes.

The suit spluttered for a moment before giving a quick, awkward bow and hurrying himself out of the room. A moment later the carriage that had brought the suit and Holmes was on its way off the estate.

“A few ground rules,” John said. Holmes quirked a brow, but he remained silent. “You do not speak unless spoken to. You keep any responses short and bland. None of that showiness you just displayed. The only exception to speaking is if you need to tell me something you believe is crucial to my immediate safety. You stay along the wall with the rest of the bodyguards. No fraternizing. Your focus for the entire evening needs to be on me. Your only job is to keep me safe. Understood?”

“Yes, sir,” Holmes said, lacking all usual brusqueness John was used to hearing from soldiers.

There was a knock at the parlour door. “Come in,” John called.

A skinny elderly woman popped inside. “The young master wishes to say goodnight, sir, if you have the time.”

“Of course, Mrs. Hudson.” Before the woman could turn around, a small boy burst from behind her skirts through the open door. He ran up to his father and John lifted him onto his good knee. “Have you been waiting all this time, Hamish?”

The boy nodded enthusiastically. He had his father’s face and blue eyes, but his hair was raven. He snuggled up against John’s chest, squeezing his arms around his father’s back. “Will you be back to read me a story?”

“Afraid not,” John sighed and brushed his hand through the boy’s hair. “It’s going to be a late one.” Hamish pouted. John leaned his forehead against his son’s. “You know I’d much rather read you bedtime stories then talk to boring old people. How about I read two tomorrow night to make up for it?”

Hamish scrunched up his face like he had to think about it. “Three?”

John laughed. “Alright, three. Papa has to go now. Behave for Mrs. Hudson, alright?” He lifted his son and set him on the ground.

When Hamish turned to dart back to his governess, he stopped when he saw the soldier. “Who’s that, Papa?” He pointed unabashedly.

John took his son’s hand and lowered it. “It’s not nice to point like that, Hamish.”

“But who is he?” Hamish frowned.

“His name is Mr. Holmes.”

Holmes took a step forward and squatted. He held out a hand to the child. Hamish looked to his father for permission. Surprised, John nodded. Hamish walked up to Holmes and shook his hand with a dramatic up-and-down motion.

“The queen sent me to make sure your Papa...” his voice trailed off when John gave him a sharp look. “To make sure he isn’t out too late.”

Hamish looked over his shoulder. “You have a bedtime, Papa?”

John smiled. “Well, Her Majesty doesn’t want me to be sleepy when I have to do important things for her, right?” Hamish giggled. “Go on, Hamish. Time for bed.”

“Night, Papa!” Hamish ran up to his father and leaned up to kiss his cheek. John gave him a quick hug before ushering him back to Mrs. Hudson’s waiting hand.

Holmes stood and glanced at the door before looking at John. “He’s unaware that your life is frequently in danger?”

“He’s barely five,” John said. “Besides.” He grunted as he got to his feet. “He already has nightmares about losing one parent. He doesn’t need more about losing the other. Come on, it’s time we leave.”

As they made their way into the foyer and out the front doors, Holmes said, “He remembers his mother?”

“Not that it’s any of your business,” John said and glanced over his shoulder, “but yes. She died just before he turned four.”

“He must be quite intelligent, to have such a memory.”

John paused at the bottom of the front steps. He looked more fully at Holmes. “Yes, he’s very bright.”

The footman opened the carriage door and offered to help his lord into the carriage. John waved him away and heaved himself in. Holmes climbed in after him, sitting respectfully in the opposite corner. The driver cracked the whip, and they started down the estate’s long driveway.

 

There was one particular man John made a point to avoid for as long as possible, which he did with great success for nearly an hour. When at last a thick hand clasped him on his left shoulder, John leaned heavily on his cane both from the force, the pain in the old wound there, and displeasure at finally having to face this man.

“Watson, good to see you. How’ve you been?” The heavyset man John turned to face was grinning and red-faced. His breath already smelled strongly of alcohol, though they had only been serving champagne. With one glance, John made out the impression of a flask under the man’s strained jacket

John managed a polite smile. “Stamford, and you. I’m well enough. Busy.”

“Haven’t seen you in, what, six weeks?”

“More or less.” John could’ve gone six years without speaking to the boisterous man and have been fairly content with that. “How’s your wife?”

“Fine, fine. Home with the girls tonight. No spouses of course. How’s your boy? Heimrich?” Drunk and mentally preoccupied.

“Hamish.”

“Hamish, of course.”

“He’s doing well. And your girls?”

“Charmers, just like their mother.” He put his arm around John and manoeuvred him away from the more condensed parts of the crowd.

John caught sight of Holmes, who had made to move towards him. He put a hand up and gave a slight shake of his head. Holmes nodded and returned to his position along the wall with the other bodyguards.

“John,” Stamford said in a low, meaningful voice.

“Michael,” John replied blandly.

“I hate to talk business here-”

“Then don’t.” John raised a brow. Stamford pulled a cloth from his pocket and patted his forehead.

“It’s just, some of our colleagues are getting a bit, well, tetchy.”

“Are they now?”

“It’s been months since you’ve given them anything... remarkable. Now, I know you work hard and you’re brilliant,” Stamford hurried to say, putting his hands up defensively. “And whatever you give us next will rival the best of your predecessors’ work, but I’m just the middleman here.”

“The man with the purse,” John muttered. “Excuse me,” he said. He walked out of Stamford’s reach as quickly as his leg would carry him.

A smartly dress girl with a laden tray swung into his line of vision. “Champagne, sir?”

“No, thank you.” She bobbed her head and started to move on. “Hold on. Could I get a glass of water?”

“Of course, sir. I’ll be just a moment.”

John straightened his cuffs and moved to the edge of the room, near enough to the back to avoid another onslaught of pleasantries without appearing too off-putting. The tactic worked well enough, and from his spot John could occasionally catch sight of Holmes through the crowd. His bodyguard seemed to be keeping true to his word on remaining silent. Holmes was often watching him whenever John caught a glimpse between small talk with other dignitaries, but at times Holmes was eying others in the crowd with pointed observation. No wandering gaze.

“John Watson, who let you in here?” John smiled and turned to the familiar voice. A tall, broad-shouldered man in a colonel’s uniform held out his hand.

“I snuck in the back.” John’s expression turned into an honest grin. “Sebastian Moran,” John said and clasped the man’s arm. “How’s peacetime treating you, Seb?”

“Horrendously,” Sebastian groaned. “I’ve never been so bored in my life. The next two weeks will either be incredibly entertaining or I’ll have to kill myself before it’s over.”

John chuckled. “And there I do not envy you, friend.”

“I never understood that,” Sebastian sighed and took a drink of his champagne.

“Understood what?” The sight reminded John he was thirsty, and he searched the crowd for the girl with the tray. There were a lot of young girls and lads with trays, though, and he was having trouble placing the right face.

“Why the man in charge of weapons innovation gets to be left out, but not the man in charge of the whole bloody military.”

John snapped back to Sebastian. “Technology.”

The colonel blinked. “What?”

“My people and I do a lot more than just weapons research,” John said, his smile suddenly tight.

“Of course, didn’t mean to offend. But you understand what I’m saying.”

John spotted his cupbearer at last and motioned her over. “Of course, but your presence is a sign of good faith. If I’m there, they’ll just be afraid I’ll steal invention after invention, military or otherwise.”

“True. You lucky bastard.” The girl squeezed up beside Sebastian with an apology. Sebastian plucked the glass of water from her tray. “Still don’t drink, eh?”

“You know I don’t,” John said, glancing at the girl as she scuttled away. Sebastian passed him the glass. Just as the edge touched his lips, it was yanked from his hands and crashed to the floor. The string quartet and the conversation both died. At first John though he had merely dropped the glass, but then a figure swept past his vision and latched onto Sebastian.

“Get off me,” Sebastian shouted at his assailant.

“Holmes!” John gaped at the sight of his bodyguard struggling with one of Sebastian’s arms. “Holmes, stop this at once.” Slowly, reluctantly, Holmes loosened his grip and took one half-step away from Moran. His cool grey eyes remained focused on the colonel, though.

“This your man?” Sebastian scoffed.

“Temporarily, and bound to be turned out unless you have a damn good reason for your actions, soldier.” John snatched Holmes’ shoulder and tried for force eye contact, but Holmes remained resolute in not losing sight of Sebastian. “Answer me.”

“Madman,” Sebastian muttered.

“The colonel,” Holmes began in a steely, measured tone, “has just attempted to poison you, and would have succeeded had I not reached the glass in time.”

After the moment in which it took John to process Holmes’ words, he burst out laughing. Not entirely the best reaction, especially since everyone was still staring at them. “Sebastian Moran? Trying to off me? Good god, man. He handed me a glass.”

“And if you examine his cufflinks,” Holmes continued, “you will find they are mechanized for the concealment and dispersal of poison.” Holmes’ hands twitched, but he clasped them firmly behind his back.

By this point, two royal guards had come in and crossed half the room. “Ridiculous,” Sebastian sneered.

John glanced between the collected soldier and the flustered colonel. He eyed the thick onyx cufflinks. “Beautiful,” John muttered. He forced on a smile. “Maybe he was just trying to nick them. Mind if I take a closer look?”

Sebastian opened his mouth to protest, but John plucked at Sebastian’s sleeve and lifted his arm. He deftly removed the cufflink and examined it in the light of the chandeliers. He thumbed the black stone, and after an initial resistance it slid to the side to reveal a shallow compartment. He glanced at Sebastian, who had paled considerably, and passed the cufflink behind to Holmes.

“Gentlemen,” John said to the guards, who had been close enough to witness this last exchange. “Please escort Colonel Moran off the premises. Oh but first,” he interrupted as each guard roughly took hold of one of Sebastian’s arms. John retrieved the other cufflink. He slid this one open more carefully and found it still contained a powdery substance. He snapped it shut again. “That will be all, thank you.”

“This is insane,” Sebastian growled, struggling against the guards.

“Knock him unconscious if you must,” John called after them. A second later, Sebastian resigned himself to his captors. “I think,” John said to no one in particular, “I will retire for the evening. Holmes.” His bodyguard followed into step at his back.

 

Neither John nor Holmes spoke the entire ride back to the estate. John’s bodyguard followed him all the way back to the parlour where they had met only a few hours earlier. John took a seat in a large chair by the fireplace, different from the one he had occupied earlier. There was already a fire going in anticipation of his return.

“Have a seat,” he said, motioning to the chair opposite. He rang for a servant while Holmes sat. Though the man’s costume looked paradoxical against the lush chair, his posture was oddly at place, if still alert. A maid arrived and John sent for tea. “Unless you’d like something stronger,” he offered Holmes. The soldier shook his head, and the maid bustled off. John dug into his pocket and produced the second cufflink. He put on the small table between them and stared at the black stone in the firelight. Holmes produced the one John had handed him earlier and put it beside its twin. “How did you know?” John’s voice was quiet. He looked up from the cufflinks at the soldier.

“I saw him deposit the poison,” he replied plainly.

John smirked and shook his head. “No. You had to be almost behind me when I took the glass, which means you were already making your way over before he ever poisoned the water.” John straightened his sore back. “And you had to get to us without being conspicuous.”

Holmes put his hands together in a peculiar fashion, with his fingertips pressed against one another but the palms apart. He glanced over at the fireplace before looking back at John and speaking. “Most of the individuals present were nervous for one reason or another. For the serving staff, it was a high-profile event and any mistakes would be even less tolerated than normally. There were also several individuals present who had reputations for seducing these individuals, and no doubt at least some of the staff were aware and put off by this.” John nodded; he could name a few of the disreputable persons Holmes was referring to. “For those in my position, we were tasked with the safety of our charge in a room containing dozens of dignitaries, staff, and other guards. A frightful task for some, I’m sure.” Again, John nodded. “And of course those in your position, none of which relish such events. And yet you were all in a position where you had to ‘make nice’ for several hours.”

John snorted. “I’m almost glad for the attempt on my life. Cut the evening nice and short.”

Holmes’ mouth twitched, as if he wanted to smile. A quiet knock announced the maid’s return. She set the tray on the table, Holmes sweeping the cufflinks out of the way at the last moment.

“Anything else, sir?”

“No, thank you. You can go for the night. Someone can clean this up in the morning.” She thanked him and left them alone again. “Don’t need to worry about you poisoning me now, do I?” Despite John’s joking tone, Holmes tapped out the contents on his side of the tray. After they poured their tea, John settled more comfortably into his chair. “Sebastian, then. You said we were all at our wit’s end, so why him?”

“Though not the only individual, he was one of few who had pointedly made their way through the crowd toward you.”

“Ah, yes. I’m quite unfortunately popular at these events.”

“It’s understandable.”

John looked up from his tea. “Oh? Do you know what I do then?”

Holmes nodded. “You research ways to improve means of living, be it through military, industry, or agriculture. You took on this role after your father passed away. However, the late Lord Watson was keener about improving implements of war. Your focus tends towards agriculture and even medicine.”

“Different times,” John muttered. “Sebastian.”

“Of course. Colonel Moran was particularly eager about confronting you.”

John huffed. “Stamford seemed pretty damn eager himself.”

“Because of pressure from his peers, not of his own accord. Moran clearly had his own reasons, which became clearer as the two of you conversed. He repeatedly fingered his cufflinks. At first I assumed it was a nervous tick, but I witnessed he worried both cufflinks rather than favouring one side or the other. Neuroses, I have witnessed, occur more frequently with dominance in one side of the body or the other. At this point, I began working my way towards the two of you. As you figured, it was my goal to remain innocuous. I was not the only personal guard who occasionally shifted places along the wall, so as long as I was calm about my movements I would not alert Moran to suspicion.” Holmes paused to take a drink, and John could almost believe it was done for dramatic effect. He hid his smile with his own cup. “Moran followed your gaze when you located the girl bringing you water. His fingers became increasingly more excited, and his pupils dilated when she came to stand beside him. At that point I was close enough to watch him release the powder when he took the glass from her.”

“But not close enough to take it from my hand yet. Why not simply shout my name to alert me to the danger?”

“There was the chance of not being heard in the crowd.” He added, sounding almost amused, “or of being ignored if you thought I might be someone else wishing to exchange pleasantries. But I’ve also heard of Moran’s reputation, though I have never met the man myself before tonight. From what information I had, I surmised Moran to be the type of individual who would be less adept at defending his character under the scrutiny of many. Making a scene, I admit, was my intention. Had I accused quietly, he would have suggested the conversation be taken elsewhere. That would put your life at further risk, and at the very least given him the chance to convince you and a select few of his innocence, as well as dispose of the remaining poison.” This time when Holmes took a drink, there was a stilted finality about it.

“Impressive,” John said. “Then I must apologise for my earlier cynicism.”

“Unnecessary,” Holmes replied. He hesitated as he set his cup back on the tray. “But appreciated.”

“You saved my life-” John chuckled. “God, I don’t even know your first name.”

“Sherlock.”

“Well, Sherlock Holmes, you saved my life, and for that I owe you.”

The soldier looked at him quizzically. “You are my assignment, sir. It’s my job to keep you safe.”

“Nevertheless, I want to show my gratitude. I haven’t the faintest how, but I’ll think of something. You’re welcome to make a suggestion of course. At the moment, however, I am feeling incredibly run down. Done with your tea?” Holmes nodded. “I believe they made up a room for you. I’ll show you that way.” The climbed the grand staircase in the foyer to the second floor landing. John pointed to the corridor on the left. “Second door on your right,” he said. “Mind, I have to ask you to be quiet. My son sleeps further down.”

“Thank you.” Holmes took a few steps, but then swivelled on his foot. “Not to be intrusive-”

“You saved my life. That allows for a bit of impropriety.” John grinned.

“Your shoulder hurts,” Holmes stated.

John rotated his left shoulder slowly. “Yes. It always does, especially when I’m tired. Got shot a while back.”

Holmes shook his head. “Your right shoulder. You use the cane with your right hand even though it’s your right knee that causes you pain. This is, I presume, due to the old injury in your left shoulder. You also used your right hand predominantly this evening, such as when shaking hands or just now when drinking tea. This is, of course, a forced habit because you’re naturally inclined to use your left hand. Due to the poor health of your left shoulder, though, you progressively favour your right hand throughout the day because, as you yourself just stated, the pain worsens with fatigue. For at least the past two or three hours, your right side has been under considerably more than the usual strain because of tonight’s events and the toll they have taken on your physical wellbeing, causing pain in your right shoulder as well as your left.”

John realized his was gaping and snapped his mouth shut. “Your insight astounds me, Holmes.”

“You are welcome to call me Sherlock.”

John nodded. “Well, yes, Sherlock. My right shoulder does ache quite a bit tonight as well.”

“I am adequately skilled at massage. Would you like me to alleviate some of your discomfort?”

“Oh.” John blinked. “That’s really not necessary. Your assignment-”

“I’m not offering because I feel obligated to,” Holmes cut in tersely. After a beat he continued, “And it’s obvious you wish to accept my proposal, but find it awkward, most likely due to the class difference. Allow me to reiterate that the offer is given of my own free will. And, if it helps, I was raised as a lord’s son as well.” There was certainly a smirk in Holmes’ expression now, though it may have been isolated to his eyes.

“Well, if you insist. I’d be a fool to refuse such a kindness.” John waved him along down the west wing of the house. His room was at the very end, and the corridor was dimly lit. Inside, however, the lamps were bright. John did away with his jacket and hung it on the open door of his armoire. “I’ve never had a massage before.”

“You will likely find it beneficial.” Holmes stood by the door.

“How does this work? Should I sit?” John motioned to a chair by a small writing desk he never used.

“Sit or lie down, however you feel most comfortable.” John pulled the chair out and set it on the rug between the door and the bed. “A suggestion,” Holmes said as John was about to sit. “The waistcoat.”

“Of course. I submit to your expertise on the matter.” John unfastened his waistcoat and laid it on the unused desk. He sat down and Holmes moved to stand behind him.

“It may feel uncomfortable at first,” he cautioned. John acknowledged him with a nod.

Holmes’ fingers worked nimbly at John’s shoulders and neck. After the first few wrongly placed touches, he was diligent about avoiding the tender scar. He was right in that it seemed more painful than relieving at first, but soon John felt himself relaxing to the pressure at his back.

“May I ask how you came about your scar?” Holmes spoke quietly.

“In a duel,” John said. He smiled bitterly at the memory. “As a foolish young man.”

“Did you win?”

John chuckled. “Yes, in a fashion. Both of us were wounded, but whether it was the pain or the sight of blood, my opponent fainted on the spot. A poor victory, some might say.”

“And you disagree?”

“Quite.” John’s smile softened and saddened. “It was for the favour of a woman.”

“Hamish’s mother?”

John nodded. “Mary Morstan.”

“Her father was a captain, was he not?”

“Long time ago.” John’s interest peaked. “Not many people know about him.”

Holmes didn’t respond to John’s comment, and once the moment passed his hands halted. “I hope that has given you some relief.”

John stood and rotated his shoulders experimentally. The pain, though still there, was significantly dulled. “Much. You have earned my gratitude once again, and this time you cannot brush it off.” He held out his hand. Holmes took it slowly. “Thank you.”

Holmes nodded and left the room. John yawned and lazily stripped off the rest of his suit. He donned a nightshirt before climbing into the large bed. He fell asleep and dreamt of a raven-haired woman kneeling over him, caressing his neck with slender hands.

 

John woke panting, nightshirt and hair clinging to his skin with sweat. He wasn’t sure if it was the banging at his door that woke him, or if it came afterward. He scrambled from bed and hastily put on his dressing gown. He swung the door open and found Holmes standing there, brow knitted.

“Are you alright?” Holmes prompted at once. His gaze shot past John and into the room.

“Yes, I’m perfectly fine,” John replied curtly. “What is it?”

Holmes lowered his eyes to John. “You... You were shouting.”

John paled and cleared his throat. “Must have been nightmares. Oh god, was I that loud? I better make sure I didn’t wake Hamish.” He started looking about for his slippers.

“No, it wasn’t that loud. I wasn’t asleep.”

John looked curiously up at Holmes, who was indeed still in his uniform, sans the jacket. A metal identification tag rested against his chest. “Where were you that you heard me then?”

Holmes shifted his weight and motioned back into the corridor. “I don’t sleep very often. Only as much as necessary.”

“And what were you doing out there?” John said brusquely.

“Thinking,” Holmes answered in a flat tone. “Hamish’s governess sleeps in the room beside the one I was set up in.”

John grinned broadly. “Yes, Mrs. Hudson does snore monstrously. I apologise, I did not consider this.”

Holmes shook his head. “As I said, I wouldn’t have been sleeping anyway. I’m sorry to disturb you.”

“Not at all.” John ran his fingers through his hair. “On the contrary, this is the third time you’ve come to my aid. Thanks you, Holmes.”

“Sherlock,” he said. He bowed his head and closed the door.

John stifled a yawn and went to the window. The sky was already turning grey. He might as well wash up for the day. There was bound to be an emissary sooner than later regarding last night’s events. He went to the washroom and turned on the tap for his bath. As he waited for the water to heat, he considered taking the day off. Last night had left him more unsettled than he cared to admit, and the nightmares had only worsened things. Perhaps he would dismiss Mrs. Hudson for the day and spend it with Hamish.

As he put the stopper in the drain, there was a knock at the bedroom door. He found one of the maids on the other side. Beyond her, Sherlock still loitered in the corridor.

“Wiggins not in yet?” he inquired as he took the card she offered him.

“No, sir. It’s not yet six.”

John read the card and frowned despite himself.

_Lord John H. Watson_

_It is requested by Her Majesty that you remain at your estate today until further notice. If Mr. S. Holmes is still at his post, he has been advised to remain there until additional orders are given. Reparations will be made if complications arise from his presence._

_MH_

“That will be all, thank you,” John said to the maid. As she turned away, he called to Holmes. He passed the note.

“I assume they wish to question me about last night’s incident,” he said when he had finished reading. He handed the card back.

“What am I to make of that last line?” John raised his brow.

There was the slightest hesitation before he replied, “I am not one to put words in the mouth of the queen, or those who bear Her Majesty’s wishes.”

John smirked. “Very well. You’re welcome to breakfast with Hamish and myself at eight.” Holmes thanked him and John closed the door. He dropped his dressing gown on the bed and pulled off his nightshirt.

As he climbed into the bath, John had to admit his shoulder was less stiff than it usually was in the morning. He let the hot water run over his neck for a moment before shutting off the tap. His knee, however, was as bad as ever, and he spent a moment massaging it under the water.

John leaned back and sank down to his neck, propping his stiff leg on the edge of the tub. He thought back to the previous night, not to Moran, but to the thinly veiled threats Stamford was supposed to convey. Poor man really was just the sorry messenger. He was a careful accountant, but horrid under pressure. John doubted the man would have held out this long had they not known each other as boys. But that was a very long time ago.

When the water began to grow tepid, John scrubbed himself briskly. By the time he was dressed, he felt awake enough to face whatever the ring of snakes back at court wanted to throw at him. He went down to his study, mildly surprised he didn’t find Holmes still pacing the corridor on his way, and Wiggins brought his tea.

From the bay window in his study, John could survey the lush grounds of the estate. By seven, the weather seemed promising enough. He felt decided on his earlier plan to dismiss Mrs. Hudson after breakfast, as soon as the matter of testimonials was taken care of.

John was hardly surprised when he heard the door ring at only quarter after seven. He was getting to his feet when Wiggins knocked at his study door. “Yes, coming. Show him into the parlour please, and find Holmes.” Wiggins bowed and was off. John rubbed his thumb thoughtfully in a circle on the handle of his cane. He adjusted his grip and made his way to the parlour.

The man waiting in the parlour was nothing spectacular. He was dressed moderately, a little heavyset—no surprise if he worked at a desk in court all day—balding but not yet greying, with a hawkish nose. There was something oddly familiar in his grey eyes that did not connect until he stood and introduced himself, “Mycroft Holmes.”

John switched his cane to his left hand and shook. “Holmes? You must be Sherlock’s brother then.”

“I’m surprised he mentioned me,” Mycroft said, though he sounded more weary than surprised.

“Just briefly.”

Everything about this man said he didn’t want to be there and found the whole matter tiresome. That was, until Holmes the younger entered the room and an unfriendly spark lit in Mycroft’s eyes. The two men stared at one another for a long moment, broken when John cleared his throat rather loudly and took to his chair. “You’re welcome to sit,” he said to the younger brother and gestured to the seat beside Mycroft’s.

“Thank you, sir. I’d rather stand.” His demeanour had changed sharply in the presence of Mycroft. He stood more squarely and spoke with a stiff tone. He was more like a soldier this way, a far call from the man who had saved John’s life and eased his pain not twelve hours earlier.

“As you wish.” Turning to Mycroft he said, “And what can I do for you? My testimony I presume?”

Mycroft retrieved a notebook and pencil from his jacket. “If you please, sir.”

John gave his account as succinctly as he could make it. When he was finished, Mycroft returned his paper and pencil to his pocket. John raised a curious brow. “Don’t you want Sherlock’s testimony?”

“Unnecessary,” Mycroft replied.

“Then why was he required to remain here?”

Mycroft perked, glancing almost imperceptibly at his brother. “Did he cause you some trouble?” His tone suggested Sherlock wasn’t even present, though he could have reached out and touched the man’s arm if he was so inclined.

“None at all. Sherlock has been very courteous, in fact. The best houseguest I’ve ever had,” he added with a smile. “I would like to know why such an order was given, though.”

“All due respect, Lord Watson,” Mycroft said tightly, “it is another matter unrelated to you.”

John shrugged. “Very well.” He stood and Mycroft followed his lead. They shook again. “Safe travels.” He turned to Sherlock and offered his hand. “Thank you again for your services, Mr. Holmes. I’ll be sure to request you specific next time.”

“The sentiment is appreciated,” Sherlock said. “However, I do not believe that request will be fulfilled.”

“Oh?” John frowned. “And why’s that?”

Mycroft started to interrupt, but Sherlock cut him off, “Because I believe I will be discharged before the day is over.” He added crisply, “Without honours.”

John gaped for a moment, his hand sliding from Sherlock’s. Mycroft hissed at his brother, “That is quite enough from you.” He turned rigidly to John, “My apologies. Good day, Lord Watson.”

“Wait,” John said firmly. He managed to collect himself quickly and straightened his back. “Why on earth would this man be stripped of his commission for saving my life? For aiding in the discovery of a traitor?”

“I’m afraid it’s more complicated than that,” Mycroft said through gritted teeth. “This is not his first offense, and it was intended to be his redeeming-”

“Offense?” John shouted. “What offense? He saved my life.”

“And for that we are, of course, grateful.”

“You show such gratitude to all your soldiers?” John sneered.

“To be fair,” Sherlock said calmly, “had I not saved your life—be it because I failed or there was no attempt on it—I would likely be facing imprisonment. Civilian life has its benefits over the alternative.”

Mycroft shifted uncomfortably on his feet, and John was speechless for a moment. It was a very brief moment. “Has everyone at court gone mad?”

“Please, Lord Watson,” Mycroft sighed. “There are other circumstances-”

“The man saved my life,” John repeated, bristling. “This seems a poor way to treat him.” He turned abruptly to Sherlock. “And you’ll just let this happen?”

Sherlock nodded. “It would be a lie to say there is no just cause for my being discharged. I have committed wrongs. Minor-” Mycroft snorted. “-but plentiful. I was aware that last night was my so-called ‘last chance for redemption.’ I was aware at the time that I had failed.”

John shook his head and ran his hand through his hair. “How on earth did you fail?”

“I was tasked to be discreet,” Sherlock answered, as if that were enough.

After a moment, John nodded. “I see. And because you caused a scene, despite that scene leading to the arrest of Moran,” John shot a glare at Mycroft, “you still failed in their eyes?” He gestured at Mycroft.

“Precisely.”

“Very well,” John huffed. Mycroft’s sigh was audible. John turned to him. “Discharge him then. Get on with it.”

Mycroft blinked. “Now? I-”

“Yes, now,” John snapped. “I wish to hire him as my personal bodyguard, and I can’t very well do that if he’s still under military contract. So, if you please, discharge him.” John tapped his good toe for show.

Mycroft gaped, and after a moment Sherlock smiled ever so faintly. He turned to face his brother. “You have it in your authority.”

“I- There needs to be a witness,” Mycroft stammered.

“I’ll bear witness,” John said, as if Mycroft was avoiding the obvious.

“Of military rank.” Mycroft practically snarled his words.

Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes. “Mycroft, you know full well Lord Watson retains his rank of captain, seeing as his discharge was due to injury in combat.”

“Very well.” Mycroft straightened his jacket in an attempt to regain some of his dignity. “I will need paper and pen. This does require some documentation.”

“Of course,” John said with a sweet smile. He rang for Wiggins and sent him to his study. “And fetch my seal. We wouldn’t want there to be any doubts back at court, would we?”

“No,” Mycroft said through a clenched jaw. During what was no doubt an unbearable silence for Mycroft, John checked his pocket watch. He would be late to breakfast with Hamish, but, then again, the rest of the day would be theirs. He snapped his watch closed, pleased to see the slight twitch in Mycroft’s temple.

Wiggins returned and Mycroft scratched out a brief statement. John signed last. He folded the paper, sealed it, and passed it to Mycroft. “Safe travels,” John said curtly. Mycroft gave a stiff half-bow and brushed past his brother and out of the house. “Well,” John said and let out a breath. “Now that that’s business taken care of. Breakfast, Holmes? The offer still stands.” He smiled lightly.

“Sir,” Sherlock said. “You were sincere about your offer.”

It was half-question, half-statement. “Of course. But we can deal with the particulars after breakfast, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course not,” he replied. He seemed to relax a little as he followed John out of the parlour. “And you may call me Sherlock.”

“So you said last night. I can see why you’d rather not be called by your family name,” John said sourly. Then, more pleasantly, “Sherlock it is.”

It was almost ten past eight when they walked into the small dining room. Hamish was swinging his legs under the table and trying not to stare at the full plates before him. Mrs. Hudson sat at his side, eying his hands carefully to make sure he didn’t sneak any bites. He brightened when John walked in. “Morning, Papa!”

“Good morning. Sorry to keep you waiting,” John said. “Go on, eat. I’m here now.” Hamish dug in gratefully as John took his seat at the head of the table. He motioned for Sherlock to sit at the set place on his right. “Mrs. Hudson,” he said. “I’ve decided to take a little holiday after last night. I’ll be spending the day with Hamish. After breakfast, you’re dismissed until this evening.”

“Of course, sir,” she said with a cheery smile.

“Really, Papa?” Hamish said around a mouthful of food.

“Don’t speak with your mouth full,” Mrs. Hudson chided.

John tried not to laugh at the bulging cheeks and bright eyes of his son. “Yes, really. I have to discuss a few things with Mr. Sherlock here, but it won’t take long. Then I’m yours for the rest of the day, my boy.”

Hamish made an excited noise and wriggled in his seat. Sherlock leaned over to John. “Our business can wait until later.”

“Are you sure? I don’t want to feel I’ve left you out of a job.”

“I trust your word,” Sherlock said.

“Well, it’s very much appreciated.” John glanced at the barren plate before his guest, or rather his new employee. “Aren’t you going to eat?”

“I’m not particularly hungry.”

“Don’t sleep, don’t eat,” John muttered and shook his head. “I expect better habits when you’re officially under my employment. I don’t need my personal bodyguard collapsing from exhaustion and malnutrition.”

After a moment, during which John had continued with his own meal, Sherlock served himself a small portion of haddock. John suppressed a smile.

 

Sherlock insisted he accompany John and Hamish, if John did in fact intend to hire him as a personal bodyguard. He offered to remain at a polite distance, but John waved away the notion. Hamish didn’t seem upset with the idea, most likely glad to be out from under his governess’ reign no matter whose company he was put into.

The two men made their way slowly down the footpath to the pond and its boathouse, which lay at the bottom of a gentle hill upon which the main house stood. Hamish would run further on until his father told him not to get too far ahead, bounce on the balls of his feet until the adults caught up, and repeat it all over again.

“Intelligent and energetic,” Sherlock commented about halfway down the hill.

“He is,” John huffed, out of breath himself. “I don’t know how Mrs. Hudson keeps up with him. God, I didn’t even think to ask. Do you have a family? They are, of course, welcome on the estate as w-”

“No,” Sherlock said abruptly. “Aside from my brother, no family.”

“I see. Well, don’t let your new accommodations stop you.” John winked.

“I do not foresee there being such... complications in my life.”

“Just because you live here now doesn’t mean you don’t get off time. Town isn’t that far, and you’re welcome to use one of the horses if you ever need to go there.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock replied. “But I doubt it will be necessary.”

John sighed. “Young man like you should have better hopes about your future.”

Their conversation, such as it was, was interrupted by Hamish. He had reached the edge of the pond and was shouting back at them, “Papa! Papa, come look. I found a frog! Help me catch it, Papa.”

“Coming,” John called to his son, though there was little he could do to quicken his pace.

All of a sudden, Sherlock was sweeping past him and quickly dissolved the distance between Hamish and himself. He squatted beside the boy and scooped something up from the ground. Hamish looked absolutely gleeful when Sherlock offered him the prize.

“Don’t squeeze it,” Sherlock was saying softly as John came closer. “And it’s a toad, not a frog.”

“How can you tell?” Hamish was wide-eyed and entranced with the creature in his cupped hands.

Sherlock began listing a string of differentiations between frogs and toads. John limped up beside him and tapped the man’s boot with his cane. Sherlock looked up at him. “He’s smart, but he’s still five.”

Hamish was looking utterly perplexed by Sherlock’s words. Sherlock looked at the toad, and then back to Hamish. “Toads are fatter and have more warts.” Hamish giggled.

He let out a sudden squeal and dropped the toad. “Ew,” he cried, staring at his hands, which he stretched before him. “The toad peed on me, Papa!”

Sherlock helped the boy to the edge of the pond to wash his hands. Hamish wiped them dry on his trousers and skipped back to his father. “All better?” John grinned down at his son. Hamish nodded and continued down the path to the boathouse. 

“He enjoys it down here,” Sherlock observed.

John nodded. “Hamish loves to play down here, but he doesn’t get to very often. Mrs. Hudson is afraid he’ll fall in and drown.”

Sherlock raised a curious left brow. “You don’t share her concerns?”

“Well, of course I have the nagging concern of a parent.” He started rubbing his thumb along the handle of his cane. “His mother taught him to swim, though, when he was two. She was a wonderful swimmer. He takes after her, like a fish.” He put on a smile. “To be honest, I’d be more afraid of Mrs. Hudson drowning trying to go after him. I’d come down more often, but between work and that hill.” John shook his head.

In the boathouse, John dug out a dusty fishing rod and managed to find some line, as well as hooks that weren’t rusty. He called Hamish in and handed him a tin and trowel. The boy dashed off at once to dig for worms and John and Sherlock dragged a low wooden bench out onto the grass. John sat down heavily and rubbed his knee.

“To be perfectly honest, Sherlock, I don’t tend toward the formal if the occasion does not require it.” Sherlock frowned until John motioned to the bench. “You’re welcome to sit.”

Sherlock sat on the opposite end, his long legs awkwardly bent on the low seat. He picked up the fishing line and began working at the knots. John regularly called out to Hamish, and his boy would pop up from the tall bulrush, wave, and dive back down to the mud.

“Do you catch much?” Sherlock did not look up from the tangle in his hands, but he nodded toward the pond.

John chuckled. “No, not much to catch. He enjoys the game, though.” John sighed. “He doesn’t get out as much as he should. It’s my fault really.”

“Does he ride?”

John grimaced and shook his head. “That is one sport I have apprehensions about teaching him.”

“He fears heights?”

“No. Hamish is eager to try anything and everything new. Quite frankly, I can’t spare the time to teach him. Nor do I have the agility to keep up after the bare basics.”

“Are you averse to hiring a tutor?”

“You’re quite talkative now that you’re no longer a soldier,” John said with a smirk. “Though I suppose you were pretty talkative then.”

Sherlock looked up from the line. “I apologise. I did not mean to offend.”

“It’s fine. I suppose I don’t mind. I’m not used to having someone to talk to.” He called Hamish’s name, waited for the appearance of the black mop of hair, and exchanged waves. Hamish went back to digging. “Call me paranoid or an egotist—many have—but there are very few individuals I trust my son’s wellbeing to without my being present, and those few are among my employed.”

“It seems you do not employ lightly.”

“No, which makes you a curious case. But I am a man of instinct, Sherlock Holmes, and there have been but a few times where that instinct has led me astray.” John rolled his stiff shoulders. “Luckily, none of those times has caused more trouble than a few gambling debts my father had to pay off.”

After a brief silence, Sherlock said, “Since you have done me more than one kindness today, I feel I should be honest with you.”

“I appreciate honesty,” John said. He looked attentively at Sherlock.

“You asked earlier if I had a family.” John nodded. “And I said it was unlikely I would pursue that road. The reason for this is I am a man who prefers the company of men, rather than the company of women.” Sherlock looked up, no doubt to gauge John’s reaction.

“I see,” John said. “Well, as I said, I appreciate honesty.”

“You do not find it... problematic, with regards to my employment?”

John smiled, though there was little humour in the expression. “If you had said you prefer the company of boys, I might have,” he said wryly. “But no, I do not have an issue with your preferences, whatever they may be. That is your personal life.” John sighed. “And that is one too many stone I don’t care to cast.”

Sherlock nodded and returned his attention to the line. He fell back to their previous conversation and mused, “I don’t believe much in instinct.”

John raised a brow. “Oh?”

“It seems more likely that the mind comes to a logical conclusion,” he said as he worked the last knot loose. “But the steps it took to reach that conclusion are not always as apparent as the conclusion itself. So we call it instinct.”

“Philosophical man, are we?”

“Logical,” Sherlock corrected. He picked up the rod and attached the line. “I analyze what takes place between evidence and conclusion, while many men sit back and call it instinct.”

“Cheeky,” John muttered, but he smiled all the same. “Hamish,” he called. “Are you ready?” The boy dashed over with his bucket and trowel. “Careful you don’t hurt yourself,” John cautioned. “And thank Mr. Sherlock. He untangled the line for you.”

“Thank you, Mr. Sherlock,” Hamish huffed, out of breath from his sprint.

John bent over to roll up his son’s trousers. “Do you remember how to cast the line?” Hamish nodded vigorously. “Don’t go in too deep, alright?”

“Yes, Papa.” He looked over at Sherlock. “Do you fish?”

“Not for a long time,” Sherlock said. Hamish held out his rod. Sherlock shook his head. “What will you fish with?”

“We can take turns,” Hamish said. His father had finished and now Hamish kicked off his shoes and struggled with removing his socks one-handed. Sherlock looked over at John, but John only smiled and shrugged. Hamish waited for Sherlock to roll up his own trousers and remove his boots. They went together into the shallow edge of the pond, Sherlock carrying the rod and line and Hamish clasping his tin of worms to his chest.

The fishing itself didn’t last long, but Hamish quickly moved on to catching toads, with Sherlock’s help. They were at it for nearly an hour. John had pulled out his small notebook and sketched, wishing he had thought to bring some proper materials with him. He often caught Sherlock looking at him over his shoulder, as if to make sure John was still there. The man certainly took his job seriously.

When they returned to the bench, Hamish looked beside himself. “Look what we found!” The tin looked a lot heavier in Hamish’s arms, and he tipped it so John could see inside. The worms had been replaced with a turtle. The creature was a dark brown with muddy greenish lines.

“Well!” John ruffled his son’s hair. “That is quite the find. You don’t see a lot of turtles around here.”

“What’s it called, Papa?” Hamish’s gaze darted between his catch and his father.

John lifted the creature out of the bucket and examined it. Its legs wriggled angrily in the air, and it was a wonder they had managed to capture it in the first place “I believe it’s an _Emys orbicularis_. A pond turtle.”

“Can I keep it?” Hamish pleaded.

“I don’t think so,” John said with a frown as he felt under the turtle’s shell. “This one’s going to have babies soon.”

Hamish, who had looked immediately downtrodden at his father’s refusal, was suddenly gleeful again. “Baby turtles!”

“I think so.” John set the turtle on the ground and they watched it amble away. “We’ll have to keep an eye out for them, eh?” They put away the rod and line and tin, and Sherlock and John pulled the bench back into the boathouse. John carried Hamish’s shoes with his free hand, and they made their way back up to the house.

 

John was slumped in his fireside armchair in the parlour when Sherlock came across him at three in the morning. There was a decanter of whiskey and a glass on the small table. His notebook lay in his lap. It was open on one of his sketches from earlier in the day, but one in which he had unknowingly replaced Sherlock with a slender, dark-haired woman.

Sherlock put the stopper back in the decanter and picked up the notebook. He closed it and slid it into the pocket of John’s dressing gown.

“I loved her,” John murmured.

“Of course you did, sir,” Sherlock said. He took hold of John’s arm, but John gripped his sleeve.

“No one believes that I loved her.” He was staring at the fireplace, or thereabouts. His eyes were unfocused.

“I believe you,” Sherlock said. “I think you ought to go to bed, sir.”

“You know, some of them don’t think Hamish-” John choked. “They don’t believe he’s mine.”

“Nothing more than gossip of the feebleminded.” Sherlock lifted John to his feet and wrapped his arm about his back. He would have to come back for John’s cane after seeing him safely to bed.

John quieted until they reached the top of the stairs. “I should say goodnight to Hamish,” he murmured, his speech starting to slur.

“You already did,” Sherlock reminded him. “You read him three stories.”

“Of course,” John said, blinking hard. “Do you know what they said about me?” he blurted, a little too loudly. Sherlock tried to hurry him down the west wing. “They said a man of my ‘disposition’ couldn’t possibly sire children.” John scowled, flush with liquor and resentment.

They reached his bedroom, the door to which was still partially open. Sherlock pushed it wider with his toe and led John to his bed. Sherlock helped him out of his dressing gown and hung it on the bedpost. “You should lay down, sir.”

John shook his head, but not at Sherlock. “She understood, though. She was too good for me. I didn’t deserve her.”

“Sir,” Sherlock said. John looked up at him, his gaze fuzzy. “Get some sleep, sir.”

“That sounds like a good idea,” he sighed and lay down.

“I’ll be down the hall if you require any assistance, sir,” Sherlock assured him. John muttered something incoherent in response. Sherlock closed the door silently behind him, leaving the man in quiet, if not at peace.

 

The following afternoon, John ordered a light lunch to be brought to his study. Once his headache had subsided, he took up a thick file Mycroft had sent with Sherlock’s personal affects. When Wiggins arrived with his tray, John inquired as to the whereabouts of his new employee.

“I believe he’s unpacking, sir,” Wiggins replied.

John checked the time on his pocket watch. “His case was rather small,” he said to himself. “Have him come to me when he’s done.”

“In here, sir?” Wiggins shifted uncomfortably.

“Yes, Wiggins.” John put away his watch. Even Hamish was rarely permitted into his father’s study, and it was often Wiggins himself who cleaned it. “It’s going to be a bit different now,” he said. “I expect you to respect this change. Don’t worry, Wiggins. You’re not out of your job, not anytime soon.” He smiled and Wiggins forced one in return.

“Of course, sir.” Wiggins bowed and left.

John finished with the file and closed it. He poured himself tea and sat back in his chair, drinking slowly as his brow gradually creased. He started when there was a knock at his study door. “Come in.” Sherlock opened the door and stepped barely inside the room. “Come in,” John repeated. “Close the door please.” Sherlock did as he was bid. “Have a seat, Sherlock.” Now that the man had other clothes, he was no longer dressed in uniform. He wore moderate attire, but clearly worn with age. John made a mental note to remedy that, but it could wait. Sherlock sat stiffly in the chair opposite John’s desk. “You’re probably wondering if I remember what I said last night.”

“Yes,” Sherlock replied. “And I take that to mean you do.”

“Unfortunately,” John said with a tight smile. “There are a many good reason I don’t drink. If it wasn’t for the necessity to entertain on occasion, I’d have the stuff thrown out. But that’s beside the point. While I may not have divulged any political secrets, I’d rather not let my enemies at court and otherwise know about such occurrences.”

“I would never have considered speaking of it,” Sherlock said. “I would not have even brought it up with you.”

“Thank you for being so considerate. Now that that matter’s taken care of, I want to discuss this.” He tapped the file on his desk. Sherlock eyed it warily, but only for a moment. John picked up the papers and leaned back in his chair. “I’m surprised your brother put such information in my possession.”

“Likely to make a point,” Sherlock muttered.

“Hm, indeed. What I think I find most fascinating is that you were actually trained for espionage.” John flipped through a few pages. “But you showed ‘a reluctance to emulate personae in preliminary exercises.’ A reluctance, not an inability.”

“You have a careful eye,” Sherlock said. His posture had straightened and his shoulders squared.

“You passed most of your exams with exceptional results, but in practice you were... reticent at best. Care to explain?”

“Joining the military was not my idea,” he said curtly.

“Family pressure,” John hummed. “I understand.” He closed the file and tossed it on his desk. “What do you want to do then, Sherlock? You don’t seem the military type, so why accept employment here?”

“You’re a good man,” Sherlock replied, rather matter-of-factly.

John smiled. “You’ve not known me two full days. You’re really ready to make such a conclusion?”

“If you’ve read my file,” Sherlock said, giving a tiresome sigh. “Then you know I have the exceptional skill of reading people and situations very quickly. This was the primary reason I was assigned to be your military escort the other night.”

John nodded. “So it was. In hindsight, I couldn’t have asked for a better candidate. But, once more, you don’t seem the military type. Why take up this career?”

“It was the practical decision. Had you not offered me the position, I would have had to begin civilian life in a much poorer state.”

“You did say you were a logical man.” John sat up and rested his arms on his desk. “One more thing. Last August, almost a year ago,” he began. Sherlock seemed to go rigid except for his hand, which flinched up. He put it down in his lap and nodded for John to continue. “There’s a blank spot.”

“What?” Sherlock sounded and looked sincerely baffled.

“A blank spot.” John opened the file again. “It has you listed as deployed, your company, all the technical information. Then there’s nothing until you return home. Well, actually,” John flipped to the next page, “a month after the fact. The next entry is March, just three and a half months ago.” He looked up and found Sherlock’s focus had hazed over. “Sherlock?”

He snapped back. “I apologise.” He looked down at his file. “I’d rather not discuss it, but if you insist-”

“Not at all,” John said. He closed it up and put it away in his desk drawer. “A man is allowed some privacy. As long as it won’t affect your ability to fulfil your current post.”

“It won’t,” Sherlock said. He seemed to relax with the papers out of sight.

“Good.” John pulled out a piece of paper on which he had drawn up a contract earlier. He slid it across to Sherlock.

Sherlock scanned it carefully. When he was finished he nodded. “Your terms are very generous, sir.”

“That’s another thing I want to discuss,” John said as he dipped his pen and scratched his signature on the page. He handed the pen and paper over. “I said I wasn’t much for formalities. I never cared to be called ‘sir.’ Of course, everyone I employee chooses that option anyway.”

“Option?” Sherlock looked up from his signature.

“The other being John. I refuse to be called ‘master Watson.’” John wrinkled his nose. “But if you feel uncomfortable calling me John, then sir it is. Although in your case, I have to insist on the former.”

“Why is that?”

“You’re in a different position than the others here, even Wiggins. You’ll be spending a lot more time with me. As you likely gathered from yesterday and last night, I tend to talk quite a bit, even when sober, which I usually am.” He smiled almost embarrassedly. “And I don’t expect you to just be a sounding board. You’re welcome to turn my ramblings into actual conversation. Encouraged even, though by no means required to. So you can understand why I prefer you call me John within the realm of the household.”

Sherlock soaked in his words. “If that is what you prefer-”

John held up a hand and shook his head. “Whatever you feel most comfortable with. If you feel the need to call me sir for now, and John later down the road, that’s fine as well.”

“I will consider it,” Sherlock said.

“Alright. Now, time to show you around a bit.” John rose, his body aching more than usual after last night. Sherlock opened the door and followed him into the corridor. “I’ve got no secret rooms, and you’re welcome around the house and grounds as much as you like. I do ask that you stay out of my study and workshop if I’m not present, and of course stay out of the staff’s way unless necessary.”

“Reasonable enough.”

John led the way to the kitchen, where he introduced Sherlock to his cook. “This is Belford. I suppose you’ve heard about our newest addition.”

“Wiggins might have mentioned something, sir,” the burly man replied with a toothy grin. “Welcome, Mr. Holmes. Take care of our Lord Watson, eh? We’re fond of him around here.”

“I intend to,” Sherlock said.

John pointed out the cellar and then took Sherlock out of the kitchen and through the small dining room. They passed the larger dining room for hosting dinner parties, and further down the corridor they stopped at a plain wooden door. John produced a key from his waistcoat and unlocked it.

“No secrets?” Sherlock commented with a raised brow.

John chuckled. “Well, no secrets from the household. From the outside world, however, I’d rather keep this space off-limits.” There was a gas lamp hanging just inside the door, which John lit. They climbed down a narrow staircase into a chilly basement. John lit a dozen other lamps, most of which were positioned near open vents.

The illuminated room was revealed to be spacious. There were two drafting tables, as well as several other surfaces covered in countless models and contraptions. There was also a wide bookshelf containing mostly rolled up designs and blueprints. A single stool was pushed into the corner.

“You stand while you work?”

John nodded. “And my leg hates me for it. But I think better on my feet.” Sherlock opened his mouth, but John waved away whatever he intended to say. “Wiggins and Mrs. Hudson get on my case enough about it. I don’t need someone else starting.” Sherlock closed his mouth and shrugged. “Now, you’re welcome to stay, though it’s unnecessary. I have work to do.” John removed his jacket and hung it on a hook by the staircase. He rolled up his sleeves and went to one of the drafting tables. Sherlock pulled out the stool and watched him work.

 

John worked until supper, and after Hamish was put to bed and he read his son a story, John returned to his workshop. Sherlock disappeared after supper and showed up again a half hour after John went back to work. He took up his seat on the stool again.

An hour later, John glanced up from his table. “You’re composing.”

Sherlock, who had been tapping and drumming against his thigh, came into focus. “You noticed?”

“My mother loved music. Wonderful with the piano. I was never more than mediocre at it myself.” He straightened and stretched. “I think I’ll call it a night.”

Sherlock helped him turn out the lamps, and they made their way upstairs. John asked what instrument he played along the way. “Violin.”

“Do you have one?”

He nodded. “It arrived with my other belongings.”

“You’ll have to play sometime, if you’re not shy about it.” They reached Sherlock’s door. He had insisted on being put up in the west wing. “Goodnight, Sherlock.”

“Would you like another massage?”

“I won’t bother you for one,” John said. He grinned. “But I suppose I would be a fool to refuse.”

“Perhaps proud would be a better word,” Sherlock said. “I don’t mind.”

“Very well. I wouldn’t want to appear too prideful.” They continued to John’s room, where he pulled out the chair again and removed his waistcoat. “I should pay you extra for this,” he chuckled.

“Unnecessary.” Sherlock began working John’s shoulders first, moving gradually to his neck. He was worse off than the other night from bending over the drafting tables, but John relaxed into the touch more readily this time. He sighed when Sherlock finished.

“I can’t thank you enough.”

“I could attempt to soothe your knee.”

“It’s alright. Thank you, though.”

“All due respect,” Sherlock said with a quirked brow, “you were standing on it for several hours without break, aside from supper.”

“You are persistent,” John said. “Why?”

Sherlock shrugged. “You’ve treated me generously. I feel it only right to reciprocate.”

John looked surprised. “Sherlock, I treat you with respect. No more generously than any person ought to be treated.”

“As I pointed out earlier today, you’re a good man.”

“The sentiment is appreciated,” John said quietly with a small smile.

Sherlock knelt before John and rolled up the pant leg of his trousers. His fingers moved gently across the skin, feeling out the twisted muscle and skin. As he begin to work, he said, “May I ask how it happened?”

“Bullet,” John answered. He clenched his jaw at the initial discomfort. “It’s what put me out of combat, which was just as well. I preferred healing, not killing.”

“Before or after your shoulder?”

“Before.” John’s eyes clouded over. “I’d been out of the service for a year.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” John shook himself back to the present. His chest felt heavy. “I think that’s enough.”

“Is it painful?” Sherlock frowned.

“No, no. But I think it’s enough.”

Sherlock nodded, but his fingers lingered and he brushed his thumb once more across the scarred flesh. He snatched his hands away and stood. “Apologies,” he muttered. “Goodnight.” He headed for the door.

John twisted around in the chair. “Sherlock, wait. Sherlock.”

He paused with his hand on the doorknob. “I did not mean to-”

“I know. Just come here for a moment.” Sherlock turned around and walked back over to him. “Is something wrong?” He shook his head. “Sherlock, I’ve said I appreciate honesty.”

Sherlock kept his gaze averted, but after a long silence he spoke, though slow and brokenly, “I lost someone. The blank in my file. Just caught up in a memory.”

“I understand,” John said, and he did. “What was his name?”

“James.” Sherlock shook his head. “I apologise. I did not mean to trouble you.”

“It’s fine. You don’t need to apologise. You do that quite a bit.”

Sherlock smiled, sad and distant. “Mycroft would find that ironic.”

“Oh?”

“I was never one to apologise when I was younger.”

“We all change.”

“If it’s all the same to you, sir, I think I’ll retire.”

“Are you sure you’re alright? Would you like to talk?”

“It’s not my place,” Sherlock murmured.

John scowled. “Damned be place.” Sherlock laughed softly. “You’ve done me enough kindness, I ought to be able to return the favour. You’re a good man yourself, Sherlock Holmes.”

“Thank you.” He looked up. “John.”

“That settles it. Sit.” Sherlock’s brow wrinkled. “Sit. I refuse to let you retire with dour thoughts. It will only result in poor sleep, and I can’t have you nodding off when you’re supposed to be ensuring my safety.”

Sherlock reluctantly lowered himself to the ground and sat cross-legged in front of John’s chair. “And what do you expect me to do?”

“Talk. About anything,” John said with a wide gesture. “Preferably something lighter than the previous topic.”

It took a moment, but Sherlock finally began talking. He took John’s suggestion of “anything” to heart. He spoke about how he saw the world, how he observed and deducted the lives of people to whom he had never been introduced. He explained how this often ended with insults being thrown at him, but he seemed to find that part more amusing than painful. Most of all, though, he talked about music, and John listened contentedly to the enthusiasm in his rich voice.

At some point, Sherlock returned to massaging John’s knee while he talked. John let it continue for a little while, but soon he leaned over and stopped Sherlock’s hands with his own. Sherlock looked up, and their noses almost touched. John found himself collapsing under those dark silver eyes. He ran his fingers through the curls on Sherlock’s temple without thinking.

Sherlock pressed his lips tentatively against John’s. John leaned into it, and soon those nimble fingers were framing his face. When they parted, he leaned his forehead against Sherlock’s and closed his eyes. “You are an extraordinarily beautiful man,” he whispered. “I thought so when you first stepped into my parlour.”

“You didn’t react accordingly,” Sherlock said, his voice low in his throat.

John smiled and combed his fingers through Sherlocks hair again. This time he left them half-buried in black. “I thought you were far too gorgeous to be a soldier, and at the time a soldier was what I needed.”

Sherlock’s hands slid down to John’s neck and rested at the base, his thumb rubbing the hair on the nape. “And what do you need now?”

John’s eyes slid open. “Someone I can trust.” His expression fell. “It’s been a very long time since I could place myself in another’s hands.”

“You can trust me,” Sherlock said and pressed his brow harder against John’s.

“Can I? A man I’ve known two days?”

“You said you were a man of instinct.”

John interrupted, “And you said you didn’t believe in instinct.”

Sherlock rolled his head from side to side. “It doesn’t matter what I believe. What does your instinct tell you?”

John circled his finger in Sherlock’s hair, twisting a lock loosely around his knuckle. Sherlock closed his eyes. With his other hand, John gently thumbed the corner of Sherlock’s mouth. He tilted Sherlock’s head back and responded with another kiss, harder and more breathless than the first.

They rose and went to the bed. John sat on the edge and Sherlock stood between his legs pressed against him, dipping down to plant kiss after kiss along his neck. John stretched his neck to give him more space to work with and rested his hands on Sherlock’s hips.

Sherlock began working at the buttons of John’s shirt, so he returned the favour. After the first few buttons, John discovered a chain around Sherlock’s neck, and hanging from it was a metal circle imprinted with words. John fingered it, but just as he made out the letter J, Sherlock grabbed his hand and moved it away. After a moment’s hesitation, he removed the tag and let it fall to the floor.

He finished with John’s shirt and slipped the fabric from his shoulders. He traced the scar on John’s left shoulder with a feathery touch. John breathed in sharply. John tugged the shirt loose from Sherlock’s trousers and slid his hands underneath, the last two buttons still done up. He smoothed his palms across the skin, startled to find regular discrepancies in the flesh. He unbuttoned the rest of the shirt and pushed it aside. His breath caught in his throat. There were numerous marks along Sherlock’s torso, thin pearly lines ranging in length from small nicks to twice the span of John’s hand. Most were faint, but a few stood out violently, even against his naturally fair skin. John was mesmerized. Horrified, but he couldn’t stop staring. Sherlock cupped his chin and turned his face up. He gave John a gentle, reassuring kiss.

They dropped their shirts and removed their trousers. Then they paused, each taking in the sight of the other. John moved first, leaning forward to press his mouth against the flat, taught, scarred stomach. Sherlock moved his legs to the outside and leaned his knees into the side of the mattress. He slipped down until he was all but sitting in John’s lap. Wrapping his arms around John, he leaned close to his ear. “Take me,” he breathed. “I’m yours.”

Still, they moved gradually, feeling out each other’s bodies until neither had much breath left. Then John sent Sherlock to the bathroom to fetch a small bottle of olive oil he kept in there for his shoulders and knee. Sherlock returned, looking perplexed as he knelt on the bed beside John.

John rubbed Sherlock’s empty hand. “What’s wrong?”

Sherlock shook his head to clear it. “I’ve never used something like this.”

“What did you use?” John didn’t manage to hide his surprise.

“Our own saliva.” Sherlock shrugged and handed John the glass bottle.

“That must have been painful.” John stroked Sherlock’s arm. When there was no response, he leaned over and kissed him. “I’ll be very gentle,” he murmured against Sherlock’s lips.

He was. He went slowly, despite Sherlock’s regular impatience under his touch. Whenever the other man wriggled anxiously, John stroked his hair and whispered softly in his ear until he settled. At times John saw a look in Sherlock’s eyes that worried him. It was something akin to fear, and whenever it took over John asked if he wanted to stop. Sherlock would shake his head and the look would dissipate for a little while.

When it was over, John kissed every mark he had made unintentionally with his nails, short as they were. Once, he thought he heard Sherlock whimper. When he finished, he held Sherlock close, and the other man nestled against his chest. John did not remember his dreams in the morning.

 

John woke and found his bed once again too big. His clothes had been draped over the back of the desk chair, which had been put back. The bottle of oil had disappeared, no doubt back to the bathroom. It was too early for the maids to have done it, which meant Sherlock had. For a moment John doubted the reality of the previous night, but aside from the story the facts of his body told him, Sherlock’s scent remained in the sheets and on John himself.

He let out a heavy sigh. His body ached, though more pleasantly so than not this morning. He went about his usual routine, indeed finding the oil back in its place in the bathroom. He tried to keep his mind clear as he soaked in the tub, but he failed at fending off the weight settling on his chest.

It wasn’t yet seven when John finished dressing. Still, he had slept longer than he did most nights, and uninterrupted by dreams. He opened his door and was surprised and relieved to see Sherlock, also washed and dressed, sitting in the corridor. Sherlock got to his feet at once.

Wiggins appeared at the end of the corridor, and Sherlock stepped quietly to the side. “Tea in your study, sir?”

“Yes, thank you. And add a cup for Sherlock please.”

“Of course, sir.” Wiggins bowed and walked back.

Once the butler was out of sight, John turned to Sherlock. Before he could manage to speak, though, Sherlock did. “I thought it imprudent to remain, lest someone,” he nodded down the corridor to imply Wiggins, “walk in.”

John took Sherlock’s hand and turned it so the palm faced up. He kissed it and smiled up at Sherlock. “Damn what they think.” A faint flush spread across Sherlock’s face.

When they passed Sherlock’s door, he stopped. “I’ll meet you downstairs,” he said and rested his hand on the doorknob.

John nodded and went down to his study. His tea was waiting for him and he poured cups for both Sherlock and himself. A moment later there was a knock and Sherlock entered, one arm folded behind his back.

“Close your eyes,” he requested. Curious, John put down his cup and obliged. He heard the door close, a couple small snaps, and then music. Beautiful, heart wrenching music, twisting its way into John’s chest. It was like nothing he had ever heard before. He didn’t open his eyes until it ended. When he did, he found Sherlock watching him carefully.

“You could do that for a living,” John said, feeling a little breathless.

Sherlock shook his head and began putting up his instrument. “I don’t often perform for an audience.”

“Then I’m truly honoured.”

They spent the rest of the time before breakfast drinking their tea in a comfortable silence. Every now and then, John would meet Sherlock’s gaze and smile, and it would be answered in turn with a small flush.

A few minutes before eight, Wiggins knocked at the door. He came in and handed a letter to John. “Just arrived, sir. And breakfast will be served shortly.”

“Thank you.” He waited until Wiggins was gone to open it. As he read, his brow crinkled. At the end, he let out a sigh and passed it to Sherlock. “Moran’s escaped.”

Sherlock went rigid and the paper crinkled in his hand. “Will he come after you?”

“I doubt it,” John said, warmed by the concern that was far beyond the professional. “I gather his initial attempt was for political gain. Now he’s just trying to save his own neck.” Sherlock relaxed a little and set the letter on the desk. “Breakfast?”

Halfway through the meal, after Sherlock had finished his usual small portion, he said almost casually, “I thought I might teach Hamish horseback riding.”

A loud clatter announced Hamish had dropped his fork. He gaped at across the table at Sherlock, completely unaware of Mrs. Hudson’s ensuing fuss. John put down his utensils more gently. “It would be of your own accord, during your off time.” John had a difficult time hiding the warm smile trying to surface.

“Of course.”

“Mr. Watson, sir,” Mrs. Hudson interrupted. “I’m sorry, but I really must protest.”

“What for?” John lifted his brow. “Sherlock’s papers state very clearly he has excellent horsemanship, both as handler and rider.”

“I’m sure, I’m sure. But—and I mean no offense to you,” she said glancing nervously at Sherlock. “But the man has been with us three days. Is it wise to put Hamish’s safety in his hands?”

“Mrs. Hudson,” John said with a calm smile. “Your concern is heartening, truly. I assure you, though, I trust Sherlock implicitly. He has already proven himself a worthy addition to this household several times over.” Mrs. Hudson nodded, though she was clearly only mildly reassured. John took a sip from his glass. “Not to mention, he and Hamish seemed to get along famously yesterday. Well, Hamish?” Hamish, who hadn’t stopped staring at Sherlock, jumped again. “Would you like to take riding lessons from Mr. Sherlock?”

His son’s answer came in the form of an incoherent squeal. John chuckled, and even Sherlock gave a mild smile.


End file.
